


Perpetual Darkness

by orphan_account



Category: Everyman HYBRID
Genre: Angst, Blindness, Eye Trauma, Gen, Gore, Torture, new vin canon? more likely than you think
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-23
Updated: 2017-11-22
Packaged: 2019-02-05 09:09:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12791349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: After a mere week without electricity, the prey is brought to his knees; he begs them to stop, the darkness and the chill. It was expected, of course. His predator's lips, brushing against his ear, are unnaturally frigid and uncomfortably chapped. And the message they bring is the clear, prophetic return, that makes Vincent's blood run even colder: "It's only getting worse."





	Perpetual Darkness

It's been roughly seven days since the power when out, since the lights have turned on or the power has heater worked. Each poorly timed twenty-four hour period is carefully marked out on a piece of paper, ripped from the back of a book, with a half-dried felt marker. They're tallied, a group of five followed by two admittedly messier stragglers. Vinny knows it's been even longer since there was any food, and longer still since the plumbing worked, yet, he'd failed to begin those counts at the start; therefore, he cannot say how long he's been going without either luxury. If not for the apparent blessing of the occasional bottle of water, hidden among the apartment's useless clutter, he would have died a while back. He's found that they're harder to find in the dark, with no flashlight or phone to guide the way. To make matters worse, there never seems to be any daylight to help him out, as if the world outside has simply agreed to go along with Habit's scheme. The little light he gets, if any at all, is nothing but a painful reminder of what he once took for granted. His head hurts from the constant, tangible darkness, from the sickening lack of illumination from room to room to room. Surely, he will go insane soon enough - if he hasn't already.

Maybe he's just imagining it, but every sound seems louder now. The crippling inconvenience in this is that the entire structure of his prison seems to creak without any outside disturbance. When he isn't sleeping, locked in a semi-peaceful rest where he can ignore how wrong the world is, he's jumping at each and every fragment of noise. Most of it doesn't even exist. Most of it, he merely thinks he hears. Footsteps, however, are a nearly unmistakeable sound, and when they don't fade or stop is when he knows that he truly has something to worry about. Fear and tiredness are always at war in his body, but it's this sort of situation which shoves his exhaustion aside. Somehow standing at attention and cowering away in the same moment, there is hardly time to prepare for the entity's entrance. Privacy is another thing which was stolen from him long, long ago.

"Hey, Vinster!" the unwelcomed guest beams, something which can't be seen in the light, but that is expected and imagined. Even his voice feels like its volume has been taken up a notch, and Vincent hates it. He hates every word that comes out of Habit's mouth. That voice used to belong to Evan, yet, not anymore. Nothing is Evan's anymore. This is not his old friend, but the parasite who stole everything from everyone & made sure they knew it was he. His blood-stained features were the last thing that many saw, moments before their demise. Some he never knew and will never know of, some he cared for deeply. Either way, Vin knows he will join their number soon enough, a disturbingly easy yet somewhat nessecary thing to accept. There is nothing he can do but accept what comes his way, hoping that lying idle and taking it will lessen the pain of each blow. So far, this submission hasn't paid off in the slightest, but anything more is far beyond his humble abilities. The man could go on for hours, pondering the mistakes he made to get him stuck here. Luckily, Habit disturbs his train of thought, strutting towards him as he clicks his tongue and asks, "You feelin' good?"

An answer, indubitably negative, gets to the edge of his tongue, and then freezes there. He cannot convince any thoughts to turn themselves into audible words, loud enough for the other to hear and act upon. Or, to laugh at, in technical terms. Mumbling some nonsense, his dark eyes focus straight down, where the carpet should be, and where he knows Habit is not. It doesn't even matter, with the distinct lack of light, but it makes him feel a little better, restoring an ounce of confidence where there was previously none. Still, he doesn't 'feel good.' He doesn't even feel okay. Vin is entirely and inarguable miserable. Typically, like they've done before, the entity would chastise him over his apparent inability to answer such a simply question. But before he can, Vinny finds himself landing on his knees with a stinging thud, now staring up in the entity's general direction. Voice hoarse from going a day or so without water, he closes his burning eyes and begins to beg. "Please..."

Before he finishes, or before he can really begin, he cuts himself off. What's the point? What is he hoping to achieve? A shred of pity is far more than Habit would ever give, and they're both well aware of it. He wishes he'd never even started that sentence, that plea which borders a prayer to a deity which he now knows can't possibly exist. If there is a God, if there were a God, he would never let this happen. Either he isn't real, or he is just as uncaring as Habit. Maybe the true wishful thinking is in his own sense of disbelief. That's certainly easier than the only other feasible reality, in which God himself has abandoned Vincent in favor of more realistic causes.

"Please? Please, what?" That obnoxious voice is faking cluelessness, and bordering some sort of sweet quality - as if he actually cares. As if he would listen, as if he would help, even though he wouldn't pay attention and he wouldn't lift a finger. He's the source of every pain which Vinny feels, and he's very well aware. Despite how easy it'd be to make everything better, that isn't going to happen. Evidently, he enjoys watching his victim suffer. This is the only explanation for such purposefully drawn-out torture, with no apparent reason behind it, nor a visible end in sight. "Hello-ooo? You in there?"

"Please stop," Vinny whispers, his voice small and wavering. They've had this exchange before, with a little less fight in Vince each and every time. Now, there is none at all. There's nothing within him but distant acceptance, and the hope that he'll be free from all of this soon. It's easy to liken him to a dog, mistreated, starved, and beaten back into permanent submission when he got fed up with it all. The pure trauma and psychological damage are far worse than any wound the entity has inflicted upon him thus far, more dehibilitating than his pain, his hunger, or the cold which gnaws at his skin. Still kneeling, his head has moved downwards, shoulders hunched accoringly. He is the perfect image of submission, torn apart and traumatized. Whether he can see the position or not, Habit must be proud of himself, now.

"Oh, I didn't catch that, Vin. You gotta speak up." Those words are only taunts, their purpose to hurt an humiliate him furthur. Habit knows full well what Vincent is asking for, and why. Yet, he'd rather treat him like this, let him suffer and suffer until he can't suffer anymore. But he hasn't reached that point yet, even if he thinks he has, and he's far from the death that he yearns for. The weaker creature opens his mouth again, and the only noise he admits is a listless whine, as though he's incapable of forming any more words. Maybe he is, and it would be a justified thing, but Habit isn't satisfied with that. No, he's never satisfied, no matter how hard his victim tries, no matter how much he does, no matter how many orders he follows- "I SAID SPEAK UP!"

"Make it stop!" the man cries, retreating just a little closer to the ground. Like someone who's reached their breaking point, he loses the ability to keep sobs from wracking his thinning frame, and to keep tears from running down his hollow cheeks. Showing weakness is never a good idea, and he tries to silence himself, to rectify his mistake. It only sounds worse after that, turning him into a desperately shaking and sniveling mess. Habit sneers, saying something and shaking his head, but Vince can't see or hear any of it. This means, of course, that he's taken by surprise when he notices, in some way or another, that the other is crouched right in front of him, down to his undignified level on the ratty carpet. He leans in close, uncomfortably close, and says something into his ear. And while Vin hears the words well enough, it takes him a handful of seconds to pick up even their faintest meaning, their whole language evading his brain just like everything else always does.

The world feels like it's crashing down on him. "It's only getting worse," Habit had said to him, the whisper roughly spat through overly chapped lips. Concealed by the ever-present darkness, something whacks the side of his head, and he's out cold. At least he gets to sleep - maybe that's for the better.  
  


* * *

  
As soon as he wakes up, he knows where he is. The awareness is more instinctual than anything else, his reasoning nearly subconscious, but be it internal or external, something clicks, striking fear deep into his very core. For a second, he thinks about Jeff again, haunting memories and heaps of guilt which are really nothing new. Soon enough, he's taken back to the present. There are much more pressing things to worry about than someone who's already dead, because he can hear the doorknob turning and the hinges swinging open an some extra light floods into the room, into the attic. Vincent has to squint against the new brightness, and the entity only laughs at him, knife hanging in a carefree grip at his side. He's aware that he's tied to a chair (classic), but Vinny still struggles briefly, like the ropes will miraculously snap and he'll somehow be able to escape from this armed demon and evade him forever after. That's all impossible, of course. Nothing is every anything but impossible, and even though it got old long ago, it's not going to stop now. It's not going to stop at any point, in fact.

They're both silent - one out of fear, the other in order to encourage that very feeling. Wooden floorboards creak as the distance between them shrinks and shrinks, but they aren't as loud as Vinny's heart as it pounds beneath his fragile ribs. Everything about him is fragile, and he's suddenly hyperaware of this. His skin is too thin, his organs too weak, his bones easy to shatter. Physically, mentally, nothing is holding him together well enough to protect him from the wrath that Habit can bring upon him. And he knows he will. That's why he brought him here, after all, to the one place that makes him wish he were back at the apartment. This is the last place he'd ever want to be, absolutely somewhere which he'd prayed that he'd never find himself within. Especially not as he is now, secured to a chair with thick rope like a damsel on the train tracks. If he'd eaten anytime in the past week or two, he would absolutely be throwing up.

To his surprise, the first thing that happens is the removal of his glasses. The action itself is rather gentle, but the frames are then thrown across the room. He hears them break when the hit the wall, a noise which is almost sickening. It makes him cringe, at least, and this doesn't go unnoticed. Habit's expression, once merely amused, turns into a broad grin. Bending down slightly, so they're face to face, he lifts one hand to Vincent's cheek, the look in his eyes containing a soft, endearing look which Vin has never seen him use before. For a moment, he feels hopeful. Perhaps this flicker of genuine emotion is some sort of sign, omen, that everything is going to be okay. Maybe he's going to be okay.

It doesn't last.

"This is going to be fantastic, Vinny. Just you wait and see." (He chuckles after this, as if there's a joke hidden in the words which hasn't revealed itself quite yet.) The beast's fingernails are sharp and uncut, something Vince only realizes now that they're digging into his face. There's nothing he can do but let this progress, let his head get forced back, neck locked against the chair. Even if he could move a muscle, he wouldn't. He wouldn't dare. Everything is frozen for what feels like an eternity, stuck in a foreboding position that will only lead to more bad. Although he's forced to angle his face upwards, his eyes are glued to the blade. It looks a little dull, something surprising when it comes to Habit. He realizes why this is so soon enough, but at this given point, coherent or calculating thoughts are far beyond him. Because, with his lower eyelid pulled down just enough, the blade's tip is easily wedged between his eyeball and the muscles around it. Like any other person would, with no movement possible, Vincent opens his mouth and screams bloody murder. This doesn't stop the pain, of course.

With surgical precision that someone on the receiving end can't possibly appreciate, Habit pushes the knife just far enough, and carefully follows the spherical rim of the other's eye. His screams are no distraction, for they're quite easy to ignore, proving themselves to be nothing more than one minor annoyance. He shushes his poor little baby of a patient, and he doesn't care that he gets no results. In truth, it feels good, hearing him cry and beg for it to stop. It feels good to know just how much it hurts him. That's the only reason he really has for doing this, but since Vince's uses have run out and their time here must end eventually, he might as well have some fun before that happens. Those aren't the thoughts on his mind, though. He's laughing while he works, drenching them both in Vince's blood and slowly but successfully severing his entire eye from the rest of his body. They can both hear muscles snapping as the edge of the knife cuts through bit after bit of small, strong tissue. Strong, but not strong enough. The whole process is excrutiatingly painful, the worst thing the victim has every been through, and Habit just doesn't care in the slightest possible way.

After some time that's indeterminable for the both of them, the first part of the job is finished, knife reaching its starting point with a satisfied noise from the entity. Too bad neither of them can actually hear it, with Vinny's shrill screams reaching what must be their highest point. Blood and tears both stain his face, a salty, coppery mess, as he shouts and sobs and makes impossible wishes, still begging for everything to stop. A gentle shove is all it takes to pop out the whole eye, still intact, and one flick of the wrist cuts it off entirely, optic nerve neatly removed. The catch of that nerve is an easy one to make, and he dangles the freshly mangled eye in front of the the live one, shaking it around like a kid showing off his new toy. It's squishy, jiggling around like jello. Cracking up, Habit comments, "Well, well, Vin - would you look at that?"

There's no response, no change in reaction. Everything about Vincent is the same, pained and despserate and broken. A hint of relief resides within him, for he reasons that this must be over. This must be what the other had planned out. And just like before, just like always, that's utterly, hopelessly wrong. He does get a break, within which he watches the other pop the eye into his mouth and chew on it, in an experimental manner. Through his own noise, he hears it pop like a bloody water balloon in those terrible jaws. A look of disgust crosses Habit's face, an evident disliking towards the taste or texture of the snack. Instead of swallowing it, he spits it back onto its previous owner, splattering blood and bits of eye on his beige shirt. The true torture resumes after this, now on the opposite side. The truly horrifying part of this repeat, however, is that he doesn't have any other way to see. At least there had been some visual sensory last time, even if it was gruesome. Seeing something horrifying is far better than seeing nothing at all, yet, this is exactly what he goes through. Habit has effectively blinded him, both eyes removed in a pointedly slow, precise manner.

"Hm... I think I'll keep this one," that monster says to the other, or perhaps to himself, ignoring the way Vin is sobbing and going on. A sudden free feeling, the ability to move, tells him that he's no longer bound - those ropes must have been cut, but he couldn't see it happen. He's never going to see a thing again. The footsteps get farther this time, and the attic door closes, plunging the room in darkness again. For Vinny, it doesn't matter. He can't tell the difference at all, no change in the thick blackness which persists in all directions, no matter how hard he tries to see something else. He squeezes his eyelids over his now-empty sockets and lets himself scream just a little more, hoping that this will lessen the pain that refuses to leave like his vision has. One man can only take so much, and this is far beyond that. Nothing is going to work out, and no one can save him now.

But, meanwhile, downstairs, the entity is mulling something over. He stares at the dark eye, almost looking alive as it sits on the wooden table in front of him. There are so many more things he can do to hurt Vincent, but something else is coming to mind. This is the prime opportunity to hurt Evan as well: two birds with one stone, you could say. Clock ticking in slow motion nearby, he keeps smiling and laughing even though he's by himself, and he slips away to put the other being in their body back in full control.


End file.
